Noelnadesan's Blog

This story centres on a mud crab as the hero and a man, a trained veterinarian with presumably all his rational faculties, as the villain.

In the Springvale market, south-east of Melbourne, the mud crab is the largest available for consumption. It is packed with sweet flesh and is often sold alive in Chinese and Vietnamese shops, with its claws tied tightly. Back home in Eluvaitivu, an islet off the Northern Peninsula in Sri Lanka, it was plentiful. Crab curry is a favourite dish among Sri Lankans. After migrating to Australia, I didn’t get the chance to taste this mud crab curry for a long time.

Sri Lankan fishermen often become furious when crabs entangle in their nets, mainly because the crabs damage the nets. In their anger, fishermen would break the crabs’ legs, and once the crabs reach the shore, they would die slow, painful deaths.

Preparing crab curry often involves cracking the crabs’ claws or boiling them alive in hot water. A popular Sri Lankan saying compares humans to crabs: they happily swim in the boiling pot until the water heats up. People usually don’t notice the pain as the white flesh turns pink. Crab curries typically include large amounts of garlic and ginger to prevent flatulence and add a spicy flavour.

In Australia, it is common to keep crabs’ claws securely tied and display them in glass cases without harming their bodies. In these cases, crabs appear to move sluggishly, like a person in a straitjacket, struggling to move. Although I enjoy crab curry, I chose to abstain from it for several years.

While shopping at Springvale Markets with my wife one day, memories of eating crabs flooded back. I paused at the fish stall to admire the mud crabs. My wife looked at me as if I were a murderer. I knew that if I bought one, I would have to kill and prepare it for a crab curry, and I didn’t want to put that burden on her. I picked the largest crab, put it in a secure bag, and paid the vendor with a 20-dollar note. Before I could finish, the crab was already on the cashier’s table, trying to escape.

Seeing the crab crawl out of the bag brought to mind asylum seekers arriving in leaking boats. I chuckled at the crab’s hopeless attempts.

My wife accused me, saying, ‘The crab is fighting for its life, which you seem to find amusing.’

My wife supported the crab’s side. Her words struck me suddenly, as landmine explosions happen regularly in Sri Lanka during wartime.

I am a veterinary surgeon working in clinics dedicated solely to four-legged animals and two-legged birds. My training emphasised showing compassion, but only to those who require my care.

 My wife’s words made me understand that even a crab with ten legs deserves compassion. I chose not to continue the argument, recognising that it could escalate to the UNHRC in Geneva. Applying animal rights principles could effectively protect the crab. I felt a conscience pang, sensing the pain caused by torturing a live crab for my own pleasure.

My conscience troubled me, so I remained silent on the way home. I heard the crab inside the bag, restless and trying to escape. The rustling of the plastic bag broke my focus. I knew that if I returned the crab to the shop, someone else would buy it for cooking. The inner debate went on unresolved. Eventually, feeling sheepish, I chose to settle the dilemma by making a curry with the crab.

My next challenge was determining how to end the crab’s life. I couldn’t use medical methods, decapitation, or kosher and halal techniques, which might explain why the Old Testament banned eating crab. If I put the crab in the freezer, it would take a long time for it to die. Someone I know said they kept crabs in a freezing room for 72 hours before shipping them to Singapore, but the crabs still survived. Breaking the crab’s legs would cause severe pain and result in a slow death. I realised none of these options was appropriate for ending a crab’s life to make crab curry.

Finally, I immersed the crab in boiling water. Although the water boiled quickly, it still took a long time for the crab to die because it was trying to crawl out of the hot pot. I left the pot, acting as if it contained only a dead crab.

Simultaneously, I recalled newspaper reports describing Asia’s longest conflict—the Sri Lankan war between the Tamil Tigers and the Sri Lankan government. Articles cited tens of thousands of deaths over the 30-year period, which deeply distressed me. Meanwhile, I was troubled by the death of a single crab. The scale of destruction overwhelmed me, making me feel like a murderer. I could almost feel the crab’s pain as it died in boiling water.

The guilt was intense. To end a living being’s life, one must suppress their conscience. Seeing a crab die in boiling water is distressing. I reassured myself that it wasn’t a human, which made the guilt more manageable.

To kill this crab, I had to make an elaborate plan with the feeling of guilt. I was pondering how they could do away with human lives so easily.

Once the crab changed from greenish to crimson, confronting it became easier. My suffering was in watching it die, but its death alleviated my pain. The crab’s suffering had ceased along with its life. After ending the crab’s life, I looked at my wife with a feeling of triumph. Initially, she acted as the crab’s lawyer, but now she had assumed the role of an economist, refusing to waste the crab that had cost 20 dollars.

I hurriedly cooked the crab but found it hard to eat because I felt queasy and nauseous. The most unsettling part was the vivid images of the crab struggling, which continued to haunt my mind. To soothe my stomach, I took two shots of Napoleon brandy to calm the butterflies.

Crab curry was truly delicious, but that was the last time I cooked crab at home!